


Comida de los Muertos

by Llewcie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Death polishes off the TexMex, Gen, Season Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:13:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death isn't going to let good food go to waste.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comida de los Muertos

**Author's Note:**

> I realized, after posting this, that I had missed a chance. So I retitled this.

Death sighed. He scuffed one Italian-leather-clad toe at a gobbet of blackened gum on the dry wood plank flooring. The Scythe was lying at his feet where it had fallen after his corporeal form had crumbled to grave dust. Ironic? He frowned at the platter of TexMex that was resting on a hi-top table by the stage, and then walked slowly over. The tamales were still warm, for which he was thankful. There were worse things than a cold tamale, when the cornmeal mush stuck clammily to the roof of one's mouth, but right now he was having trouble thinking of any. He picked one up and dunked it into the salsa verde, chewing contemplatively as he stood looking at the cheerfully dancing, well-dressed skeletons in the Dia de los Muertos mural on the stage wall.

 Above the roof of the abandoned restaurant, he could hear the howling of the Darkness, something he had hoped he would never hear again. Once again, he recalled the conversation he had had with God, about how it was a bad idea to lock the Darkness away with a key and then give the responsibility of keeping it to a fallible creature, no matter how impressive a service record. Why God didn't just keep it in a jar on the mantle, he would never know. But no, he had to entrust it to Lucifer, and pretty much everyone had seen that one coming. Death didn't blame humanity, not really, and he didn't blame Dean Winchester. How could you stay angry at someone who made such good taquitos?

 Speaking of which, his long fingers touched greasy plate and he looked down, surprised to find that the tray was empty. He frowned, then took a napkin and dried his lips. The Scythe, as the flick of a finger, was back on the chain around his neck. He pushed his chair in, turned out the lights, and walked out onto the porch. Briefly, he contemplated moving the Winchesters and their precious Impala to higher ground, but decided against it. Maybe it was petty of him.

 Yeah, it was probably petty of him. Well, let that be a lesson to them. He cracked his knuckles and redirected his thoughts to the more pressing situation at hand. He was going to have to recruit a few more Reapers.


End file.
